Free Trouble With the Truth (9781476793498) by Edna Robinson Page B

her loss was my fault. “You say the damnedest things to people. What makes you think a woman like Felicity Gorham is interested in how old Dad is, and Jen’s uterus?”
    I folded up Fred’s sheet. “She wasn’t interested in character acting.”
    â€œYou just don’t know the first thing about people, Lucresse. You act like you’re twelve.”
    We walked together, slowly, to Fred, hating each other.
    At home, the feeling grew stronger as we interrupted each other telling my father whom we’d met at the beach. From what Ben reported, he and Mrs. Peddicord could have had a rewarding discussion about the theater, if I hadn’t been in the way, barging into their intelligent conversation with unbelievably inane comments. Moreover, he was particularly sorry about my misbehavior because it would make my father’s future meeting with her embarrassing, if not impossible. He finished the tirade, “She ended up inviting her to dinner. Of all the gall! Of course Mrs. Peddicord walked away.”
    â€œShe said I was wonderful.”
    â€œShe was acting , you fool,” Ben said.
    â€œI didn’t see anything wrong with inviting her to dinner.”
    â€œOh, no, except that was when she ran away.”
    â€œBut nothing unpleasant happened,” my father mused. “And you told her I didn’t want to sell her anything…I’m going to call her.”
    â€œShe already said no,” Ben protested.
    â€œI know,” my father said.
    As he rattled through some papers on his desk looking for the note he had made of her address, I, too, wished he wouldn’t call. If Ben was right, I didn’t want to see him be cut off, because of me.
    In my fourteen-year career of eavesdropping, I hadn’t heard anything more interesting to me than his part of that telephone conversation. He started, rather formally, introducing himself and mentioning that she had met Ben and me. There was a short silence, and when he spoke again, his voice was changed. “This is Mrs. Peddicord?” he said very seriously. Then his pleasant humor returned. “It was at the beach, not more than an hour ago… You don’t have to be sure—I’msure. Yes, I’ve often thought they were exceptionally nice people…I wouldn’t think of discussing it over the telephone… No, it’s extremely important business—to me, not to you. No…no…you’re not even warm. No…you may call me Walter. No…this is foolish, Felicity. We must satisfy your curiosity at once. What is it you’re drinking?… We have some of that here…I understand that Lucresse invited you to dinner. I’ll send Fred for you immediately…” He laughed. “Well, you’re going to tonight, Felicity. Now listen carefully. Wash your face and comb your hair and don’t drink any more until you get here. Fred will pick you up in twenty minutes. Good-bye, Felicity.”
    I had tried on four dresses to choose one I believed made me look less skinny, before Fred brought her back. She wore a chiffon gown whose bodice caressed her breasts and whose skirt swirled in a hundred soft folds. It and her silken shoes with sharp heels were the same orange color as her hair. I was impressed that she walked more gracefully on her orange stilts than she had barefoot on the beach, and her eyelashes seemed to have become longer and thicker since we’d met. The ring was still on her fourth finger.
    She came in saying, “Hello, Walter Briard. Lucresse. Ben. I should write a book on how to get stoned and sober in twenty minutes. Or, almost sober.”
    â€œThen it won’t do to continue drinking standing up,” my father said, escorting her to the sofa, past the long wall covered with paintings and tapestry and the bookcases and secretary and small, marble- topped tables, all loaded beyond capacity with unrelated objects of my father’s